A Little Girl in Old Detroit, Amanda Minnie Douglas [primary phonics TXT] 📗

seems a pity--"

"Monsieur, there are only two lines that seem important for a woman. One is the training to make her a good wife and mother, and in new countries this is much needed. It is simplicity and not worldly arrogance, obedience and not caviling; first as a daughter, then as a wife. To guide the house, prepare the meals, teach her children the holy truths of the Church, and this is all God will require of her. The other is to devote her whole life to God's work, but not every one has this gift. And she who bears children obeys God's mandate and will have her reward."

"Whether the world is round or square," thought the Sieur St. Armand, but he was too courteous even to smile. Jeanne Angelot would need a wider life than this, and, if unduly narrowed, would spring over the traces.

"You think M. Bellestre means to come?"

"He has put it off to next year now. There is so much unrest and uncertainty all over the country, that at present he cannot leave his business."

St. Armand sighed softly, thinking of Jeanne.

"Would you show the clothes and the trinkets?"

"O yes, Monsieur, to a person like you, but not to the idly curious. Indeed, for that matter, they have been mostly forgotten. So many things have happened to distract attention."

He rose and went to the old escritoire. Unlocking a drawer he took out a parcel folded in a piece of cloth.

"The clothes she wore," he said, "even to the little shoes of deerskin. There is nothing special about them to denote that she was the child of a rich person."

That was very true, St. Armand saw, except that the little stockings were fine and bore the mark of imported goods. He mused over them.

The priest opened a small, oblong box that still had the scent of snuff about it. On it was the name of Bellestre. So that was no clew.

"Here is the necklet and the little ring and the paper with her name. Madame Bellestre placed these in my hand some time before she died."

The chain was slender and of gold, the locket small; inside two painted miniatures but very diminutive, and both of them young. One would hardly be able to identify a middle aged person from them. There was no mark or initials, save an undecipherable monogram.

"It is a pity there are no more chances of identification," St. Armand said. "This and the stockings come from France. And if the poor mother was dead--"

"There are so many orphans, Monsieur. Kind people take them in. I know of some who have been restored to their families. It is my dream to gather them in one home and train them to useful lives. It may come if we have peace for a while."

"She has a trusty guardian in you."

"If I could decide her fate, Monsieur. Truly she is a child of the Church, but she is wild and would revolt at any abridgment of her liberty. We may win her by other means. Pani is a Christian woman though with many traits of Indian character, some of the best of them," smiling. "It cannot be that the good Father above will allow any of his examples to be of none effect. Pani watches over her closely and loves her with untiring devotion. She firmly upholds M. Bellestre's right and believes he will return. The money to support them is sent to M. Loisel, the notary, and he is not a churchman. It is a pity so many of out brave old fathers should die for the faith and the children not be gathered in one fold. In Father Bonaventure's time it was not so, but the English had not come."

The good priest sighed and began folding up the articles.

"Father Gilbert believes in a stricter rule. But most of the people have years of habit that they put in the place of faith. Yet they are a good, kindly people, and they need some pleasures to compensate for their hard lives. They are gay and light-hearted as you have no doubt seen, but many of them are tinctured with Indian superstitions as well. Then for a month, when the fur traders come in, there is much drinking and disorder. There have been many deep-rooted prejudices. My nation cannot forgive the English for numberless wrongs. We could always have been friends with the Indians when they understood that we meant to deal fairly by them. And we were to blame for supplying them with fire water, justly so called. The fathers saw this and fought against it a century ago. Even the Sieur Cadillac tried to restrict them, though he did not approve the Jesuits. Monsieur, as you may have seen, the Frenchman drinks a little with the social tendency of his race, the Indian for the sake of wild expansion. He is a grand hero to himself, then, ready for a war dance, for fighting, cruelty, rapine, and revenge. I hope the new nation will understand better how to deal with them. They are the true children of the forest and the wilderness. I suppose in time they would even destroy each other."

St. Armand admitted to himself that it was hard to push them farther to the cold, inhospitable north, which would soon be the only hunting ground left them unless the unknown West opened a future resource.

"They are a strange race. Yet there have been many fierce peoples on our earth that have proved themselves amenable to civilization."

"Let us hope for better times and a more lasting peace. Prejudices die out in a few generations." Then he rose. "I thank you sincerely for your kindness, father, and hope you will be prospered in your good work, and in the oversight of the child."

"You are not to remain--"

St. Armand smiled. "I have much business on my hands. There are many treaty points to define and settle. I go to Washington; I may go to France. But I wish you all prosperity under the new government."

The priest bowed.

"And you will do your best for the child?"

"Whatever I am allowed to do, Monsieur."

There was still much soreness about religious matters. The English laxity had led to too much liberty, to doubting, even.

They bade each other a cordial adieu, with hopes of meeting again.

"Strange there should be so many interested in the child," St. Armand mused. "And she goes her own way serenely."


CHAPTER VI.

IN WHICH JEANNE BOWS HER HEAD.

General Anthony Wayne was a busy man for the next few weeks, though he was full of tireless activity to his finger tips. There was much to be done in the town that was old already and had seen three different regimes. English people were packing their worldly goods and starting for Canada. Some of the French were going to the farther western settlements. Barracks were overhauled, the palisades strengthened, the Fort put in a better state of defense. For there were threats that the English might return. There were roving bands of Indians to the north and west, ready to be roused to an attack by disaffected French or English.

But the industrious inhabitants plied their vocations unmindful of change of rulers. Boat loads of emigrants came in. Stores of all kinds were dumped upon the wharf. The red painted windmills flew like great birds in the air, though some of the habitans kept to their little home hand mill, whose two revolving stones needed a great expenditure of strength and ground but coarsely. You saw women spinning in doorways that they might nod to passers-by or chat with a neighbor who had time to spare.

The children played about largely on the outside of the palisade. There were waving fields of maize that farmers had watched with fear and trembling and now surveyed with pride. Other grains were being cultivated. Estates were staked out, new log houses were erected, some much more pretentious ones with great stone chimneys.

Yet people found time for pleasure. There were canoe loads of merry girls going down or up the river, adroitly keeping out of the way of the larger craft and sending laughing replies to the chaff of the boatmen. And the evenings were mostly devoted to pleasure, with much music and singing. For it was not all work then.

Jeanne roamed at her own wayward will, oftenest within the inclosure with Pani by the hand. The repairs going on interested her. The new soldiers in their Continental blue and buff, most of it soiled and worn, presented quite a contrast to the red and gold of the English to which their eyes had become so accustomed. Now and then some one spoke respectfully to her; there was much outward deference paid to women even if the men were some of them tyrants within.

And Jeanne asked questions in her own fearless fashion. She had picked up some English and by dint of both languages could make herself understood.

"Well?" exclaimed a young lieutenant who had been overseeing some work and cleaning up at the barracks, turning a smiling and amused face towards her, "well, Mademoiselle, how do you like us--your new masters?"

"Are you going to be masters here for long? Are you sure the English will not come back?"

She raised her head proudly and her eyes flashed.

"It looks as if we might stay," he answered.

"You will not be everybody's master. You will not be mine."

"Why, no. What I meant was the government. Individuals you know have always a certain liberty."

She wondered a little what individuals were. Ah, if one could know a good deal! Something was stirring within her and it gave her a sort of pain, perplexing her as well.

What a bright curious face it was with the big eyes that looked out so straightforwardly!

"You are French, Mam'selle, or--"

"Am I like an Indian?"

She stood up straight and seemed two or three inches taller. He turned a sudden scarlet as he studied the mop of black curling hair, the long lashes, through which her eyes glittered, the brown skin that was sun kissed rather than of a copper tint, the shapely figure, and small hands that looked as if they might grasp and hold on.

"No, Mam'selle, I think you are not." Then he looked at Pani. "You live here?"

"Oh, not far away. Pani is my--oh, I do not know what you call it--guard, nurse, but I am a big girl now and do not need a nurse. Monsieur, I think I am French. But I dropped from the clouds one evening and I can't remember the land before that."

The soldier stared, but not impertinently.

"Mam'selle, I hope you will like us, since we have come to stay."

"Ah, do not feel too sure. The French drove out the Indians, the English conquered the French, and they went away--many of them. And you have driven out the English. Where will the next people come from?"

"The next people?" in surprise.

"The people to drive you out." She laughed softly.

"We will not be driven out."

"Are you as strong as that?"

"Mam'selle, we have conquered the English from Maine to the Carolinas, and to the Mississippi river. We shall do all the rest sometime."

"I think I shall be an American. I like people who are strong and can never be beaten."

"Of course you will